


Lege artis

by DaisyofGalaxy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Baby elves are cute, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Gen, Unexpected Visitors, Yen Versus The Baby, irony of fate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10166756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyofGalaxy/pseuds/DaisyofGalaxy
Summary: Lege artis ( literally: by the law of the art). Doing something exactly according to fixed and approved rules of the artist, not by any other, improvised method.One winter day, Yennefer makes a decision that will cost her quite a lot. Set not long after "The Last Wish".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The origin of that fic is rather trivial and links two elements: the lack of stories addressing an obvious, although avoided conclusion and my current interest in obstetrics. The story is T-rated, still certain things may occur to some people as uncomfortable. I'm very sorry about it. Looks like years at Uni made me a cold analyst.
> 
> I would like to thank my betas, YenneferofVengerberg and infinite_regress for their constant and priceless support.

Lullaby, and good night,  
With pink roses bedight,  
With lilies o'erspread,  
Is my baby's sweet head.  
Lay you down now, and rest,  
May your slumber be blessed!

_Brahms' Lullaby (Traditional English Translation)_

 

“I swear one more call like this,” Geralt heard Yennefer threaten menacingly.

He lit the last candle in the candleholder, pushed the entire structure towards the bouquet of carnations, once again rearranged the dinnerware and wine glasses, and then emerged slowly from the dining room. He found Yennefer in the hallway. She was sitting on the wooden bench and toiled with a strap of her bootee. Her woolen cloak hung from the rack already, dried off and had decorated the travertine floor with heavy droplets of storm.

“Pneumonia?” he asked. Utterly as a matter of a form. He knew it wasn’t the case. Pneumonia was fast and easy. This time around, she had disappeared for more than a day.

Without a word or a single glare, the sorceress made him a place beside her on the bench.

“Problematic labour,” she growled, at last setting herself free from the piece of footgear. The shoe flitted across the room like an arrow and vehemently hit the wall before halting. “I won’t bore you with details and names. Long story short; it got very bad and very bloody.”

Geralt was silent. He didn’t need to ask. The answers were right before his eyes. He looked at her. At her unnaturally pale face and trembling fingers which now fought a lost battle with the second shoe. At the hole left from the missing sleeve of her blouse and the clumps of dried blood behind her fingernails.

“I was told things like that just happen.” he offered, kneeling down and reaching for her foot. The shoe yielded almost instantly. “My friend is a priestess of Melitete. She still struggles at times.”

The sorceress raised her violet eyes and peeked at him with an expression he couldn’t guess. Perhaps, he had never seen it before. The repertoire of Yennefer’s stares seemed endless. “I’m a sorceress, witcher. I don’t struggle.”

Geralt didn’t argue nor protest, only watched how she got up and disappeared on the staircase leading to the upstairs chambers. He didn’t follow her. He was more than aware that while sincere, his words and gestures couldn’t help much. Besides, he didn’t feel in the position to insist on such intimacy. What was he in the end? He hadn’t found any traces of his forerunners in the house, yet it did not confirm he was an exception. Yennefer surely invited others before him. She simply wasn’t sentimental.

“Excuse me lad,” the dull voice of Yennefer's emeritus cook woke him up from his pensiveness.  “Is Lady Yennefer back?” she asked again, picking up one of the bootees from the ground.

“You’re not supposed to overwork yourself, Maria. You’re on retirement now. You are owed it,” he mumbled, clutching the other shoe which the woman tried to take from him. Completely without reason, because somehow her thin and veiny fingers managed to pull it out nevertheless.

 “Will she join you at the dinner tonight?” she chuckled, visibly happy with the result of her actions.

Geralt didn’t reply. Nonetheless, his message still seemed to reach her just as well.

“Were you the cause of her appetite loss?” she asked. The witcher remained quiet. Her directed comments did not astonish him anymore. He got used to them, liked them even. For once he met someone who was brave enough to reach beyond the level of fake kindness.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then it must be work again,” whispered Maria, warm sparkles danced in her chestnut-brown eyes. “You know what we’re going to do? There’s no crisis that a meal brought by beloved man won’t fix.”

“I don’t think she wishes company now.”

“Nonsense,” said Maria, reaching for Yennefer’s cloak. “Why can’t you men see things how they are?”

“Because it’s not that easy. Lady Yennefer is not any woman. What can be an acknowledged fact for every other of her kind, for her-” he didn’t manage to finish.

“Let me tell you something,” the woman interrupted him. “My parents sent me here when I was fourteen. Lady Yennefer was not much older. I was there when this house was just a dream on a piece of paper. I remember the day the shop downstairs was opened for the very first time. If I suggest something, you do it.”

 Maria did not add a single word more. She turned on her feet just as graciously as her blooming arthritis allowed her to. “Now lad, help me get to the kitchen.”

Geralt obeyed, but rather reluctantly. He begun to ponder for a moment why he so rarely visited that place. Then, the smell of boiling rabbit meat and clarified fat hit him.

He looked around the room. A young, maid was sitting by a table in the corner, almost buried under the weight of the towels, sheets and other fiddle-faddle piled up on it. The mess didn’t appear to worry the girl even a little, she was way too preoccupied with burnishing Yennefer’s bootees. She had greeted him with a nasty discomposure to which Geralt responded with an equally amiable smile.

“Duck confit or rabbit stew?” asked Maria, pointing at the two medium-size pots on the stove. There was a third one too but about its content Geralt wasn’t informed.

“Maria you should rest,” he sighed.

Maria however appeared resistant to his begging.

“Done that so many times, it won’t change a thing.”

 “Rabbit stew.”

“Good choice,” whispered Maria. Then she reached for two porcelain bowls and poured a sound dollop of soup to both of them. She placed them with grace on a copper tray, next to a tea pot and a basket of bread, and some sophistically folded napkins which as Geralt had learnt already contained cutlery.

“And maybe that cake from yesterday, if you please,” he muttered.

 

****

 

The water had taken the colour of autumn rowan and Yennefer started to regret she had not rinse herself before getting in the bath tub. The traces of the last several hours she so badly wanted to brush off did not want to go away. Everything had the sickening smell of blood. The echoes of screaming still rung in her ears. Her scream. The expectant mother’s. Then the bleak emptiness that followed them.

“Are you alright?” Geralt concerned voice stirred the silence. She turned around and spotted his sizing-up eyes. Until now, she hadn’t sensed his presence in the room but it did not surprise her much. If there was anything witchers were good at, it was their subtlety.

“I’ve been better. Thank you.”

Geralt moved closer and took a seat on the floor. “Quite a lot of it,” he sighed, leaning down over the tub. “Weren’t exaggerating when you said it was bloody.”

“The placenta has grown into the wrong part of the uterus if you must know. In such cases, labour can’t progress. Ultimately it makes the mother bleed to death and the fetus suffocate.”

The witcher looked at the stone tiles covering the floor. Something very interesting must have drawn his attention. Something that Yennefer could not see. “Does it happen often?” he asked, with a note of unease in his voice.

“Yes. I’m not new to it.”

 “Why does it happen?”

The sorceress closed her eyelids. The petrified eyes of elven woman were glancing at her again. Then the same eyes begun to look distant and cold, lifeless. “It just happens,” she whispered.

Geralt nodded. He didn’t ask about anything else, once more showing the superiority of his kind over the other fractions of manhood. Instead, he passed her one of the bowls from the tray he brought with him. Without a word. Without annoying attempts to gain her attention. It felt nice. It probably was.

She focused on the content of the bowl. The massive chunks of beans scorched the roof of her mouth and throat, but she gobbled it down nonetheless, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. From time to time, she peeked at the witcher. Every now and then, he peeked back. Neither of they dared to speak. That evening they ate in silence.

 

****

 

“Night,” sighed Geralt, placing his book back on the bedside table. Apparently, he did not await Yennefer’s reply. When she tilted her head to wish him goodnight, he was lying on his other side, his oil lamp already extinguished.

The sorceress yawned, pushed aside the mug of ginger tea and the very first edition of _The Forgotten Herbaceous Plants_. Then she unceremoniously clung to the witcher.

“You’re going to Gulet tomorrow, aren’t you?” she said with her cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his shirt. He smelled of lavender and coumarin, and _him_.

Geralt intertwined his hands with hers, but lingered with reply. Not without reasons, Yennefer knew. The fair in Gulet was a recurring topic of their arguments. Many long and bitter arguments. The statistics however didn’t discourage her much. They were in fact promising. A group of scholars at Oxenfurt had established already the positive link between makeup lovemaking and relationship success rate.

“That was the plan,” the witcher begun when she was close to accept they would not converse that evening. “Thought we discussed it. I promised to stay away from trouble, liquor and Dandelion in general. Can stay if you want me to,” he offered then, squeezing her fingers gently. His proposition appeared to Yennefer at least surprising.

“Would you?”

“I think I would,” he blurted. His grip on her hand grew stronger. “We could spend the whole day in our nightwear. Read some silly books. Drink wine. Why are you laughing?”

“And comb each other’s hair? You think that’s what I do when I’m sad? Witcher, you just offended the entire womankind.”

 

****

 

The silver ring on Yennefer’s finger burnt again. She turned over in the bed and glanced at Geralt. He was lying motionlessly, trammeled in the net of the dreams. The dim light of the moon exposed a grin on his lips. Quite a significant grin.

Slowly, she freed herself from the cocoon of damask duvet, bear skin and blankets. She herself preferred chill of the night. The witcher was, however, a bit different in this regard. An indicator of good night sleep to him seemed to be droplets of sweat covering every inch of the body. Yennefer found it more as a reason to laugh than to get angry. Another completely ridiculous habit of his. She even suspected he would slept with his jacket on, if she had not objected.

She sat on the bed, looked around the room, and then again at the witcher. He seemed just as oblivious as moments earlier, if not more. The ring sent a painful impulse again. She reached for her robe and threw it on her shoulders. Even in her own household, she did not like to parade around not dressed properly. Carefully, she got up.

Before long she was in the workshop. Candleholders in the room responded to a simple spell and dispersed the infinite darkness. It appeared almost as during the day. Only more private. She came here for privacy after all.

She passed the bay of white tables and laboratory equipment and entered the adjusting room. The other one had more in common with a store room than laboratory. Rows of magical and conventional ingredients in metal cans decorated shelves. Oak cupboards labeled with stickers indicated a plethora of beakers and mortars and other glass instruments. The scales of weighting machines trembled gently as she walked by.

The sorceress lifted an empty jute box and put it on one of the boards. She filled it up with dozens of beakers, some of them in hilariously small sizes. A bunch of spoons and glass pipettes. A huge jar of sterile water. Plenty of cotton cloths that were normally used to wipe the tables after work. She would likely needed more of them in the future, and some towels as well. And a bowl with warm water. This could wait however. It needed to. Priorities first. Her finger hurt again. She needed to find the can catalogued A108C.

With the box in her hands, she stopped by the black metal doors leading to the last room of the workshop. She placed her free hand to the floral decoration covering it. The thin metal twigs came to life and wrapped themselves around the sorceress’ hand. In a blink of an eye, the entire motif rearranged itself and formed a tunnel. A very narrow tunnel.

The sorceress entered the tiny space and left the box on one of the many shelves, right next to jars of unicorn teeth and black diamonds and other amazingly rare or expensive stock that were kept in here. Deep in the floor was hidden even a smaller room. Its size was desired however. It was much easier to cool- a requirement for storage of blood and bone marrow, and other biological samples. That store did not interest her much that night. Everything she needed was in a wicker basket in the corner of the room.

She approached the basket and peeped into it cautiously. A sweet, penetrating smell hit her nostrils again. She loathed that smell. It awoke feelings she could not name nor even describe. Feeling she had no experienced before, that seemed vague and odd. Eerie almost.

She let her hands lay on the wicker walls. She did it great care, but the cargo of the basket seemed to notice the subtle shift nonetheless. A bass sound similar to the purring of a cat stirred the perfect silence. A noise followed by a long sigh. It didn’t scare the sorceress off. She made another step.

Her hand ghosted over the soft fabrics. Only one finger. Very gently. Something changed once more. From between sheets and blankets loomed up slowly a tiny, pink face. She drawn her hand back in hurry. She had to.

A pair of cobalt-blue eyes was glaring at her from under the line of black eyelashes, visibly with trouble but still undeterred.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

A gentle chill of the morning woke Yennefer from her nap. She opened her eyes and looked around. They were back in the office at the back of her workshop: she, the basket and its contents. The light was pouring in through the cracks in the window shutters, but merely  illuminated the outlines of the room. The day was yet about to start.

Slowly, she rose from the armchair which had served for her bed that night. Not straight away. She moved there after the fifth alarm of the ring on her finger, when the cold and hard floor of the store room began to feel unbearable and the prospects of getting caught hadn’t scared anymore. Now postponing it for so long felt more than inane. She wrapped the woollen robe tighter and approached the basket.

The little elf inside was snoozing, his tiny body trapped in the snares of yesterday’s shirt, exactly how she’d left him. The smell of her body on the fabric didn't seem to bother the baby. He was dreaming. About what the sorceress didn’t know, but the topic must have engulfed him entirely. He lay with his head tilted back a little, his eyebrows knitted and his lower lip caught under the upper one.  

The boy looked content and her intuition suggested she should take some rest as well, but somehow she could not force herself to leave the provisory crib just yet. She was glancing, gawking as if she had never seen a newborn before.

In a way she had not. One could never grow old of witnessing new beginnings. Not to mention the psychological and evolutionary advantage the little,  vulnerable creature had over her. Still, she knew it was not the case. Not the main reason at least. It was more a need to examine. An urge to assess once more the size of injury, now as the new dawn was striking and the emotions died off, to find out how massive the damage truly was.

Today, however, the daylight had a more literate meaning. Just as the wound was not a wound. It was a twelve hour old infant, dressed in everything at hand and fed with evaporated milk from a metal beaker. She sighed hopelessly. Her wound needed a tourniquet.

 

* * *

 

Yennefer’s dining room was the worst appetizer possible, pondered Geralt over a bowl of milky soup. Pale blue wallpaper and oak panels.  A painting illustrating decapitation. The other painting showing nothing but a basket of fruits and involuntarily forcing to wonder if they were oranges or tangerines.  They were too big to be tangerines, but maybe the artist hadn’t kept the proportions right?

There was also a row of enormous windows that introduced to the chamber just as much light as cold. A large diamantine chandelier that could just as well decorate a royal ballroom. A tall, silver cage that was a home for a canary that never sang. A dainty cabinet made of exotic tree and a collection of bronze figurines.

But the worst of all was a narrow, long table and endless chairs. The chairs that were never taken. Today the room felt emptier than ever, because today he ate on his own.

 

* * *

  


_Iola, can I hold him? Please, please just for a second._ Yennefer heard one of the pupils beg. The gal to which the girl directed her plea stood imperturbably between the blooming hyacinths and discussed with the other four girls issues such as milia, cradle cap or neonatal jaundice. The little elf in her arms served as a role model.

Yennefer watched the lecture from a safe distance. More precisely from the armchair placed between the shrubs of hibiscus and rhododendron. The chirrup of birds. The jug of her favourite raspberry tea, as always served with ice and few leaves of mint. The smell of vegetation  in the air. They almost managed to fool her it was not the middle of winter, but only almost.

“Why did you drag me here, Nenneke?” she asked,  sensing the presence of the archpriestess beside her.

The other woman emerged from behind the fat leaves of boxwood. “Five pounds, seven ounces,” she remarked, pointing at the little creature in the arms of her student. “Nice weight for an elf. He's nursing well. No signs of circulatory or pulmonary dysfunction which are a scourge of his race. A strong, beautiful infant.”

The sorceress took a long sip of iced tea. She did not say a word.

“And you’re still upset. Please stop this ridiculous sulking. I was just trying to be helpful.”

Her lack of enthusiasm was more than justified.  There was nothing Yennefer loathed more than being treated like a novice. In that very moment, Nenneke and her students made her feel exactly that way. She was separated from the baby the very first minute she arrived to the Temple and asked a tremendous number of questions. The questions to which she did not know the answer and which seemed trivial to everyone around. And then when the little elf was briefly returned to her, he smelled of chamomile and had no trace off vernix on him. She asked at least three times not to bath him.

“It happened to me twice,” Nenneke broke the uneasy silence. Yennefer did not dwell on. “In most cases, there’s a father or another relative. Or at least a tiny, cosy Temple that takes unfortunate creatures under its wings. That’s what happened with those two.”

“Good for you. My first one turned out to be a rara avis.”

“More persona non grata,” corrected her the archpriestess. She took a seat in the armchair next to hers, retrieved from her pocket a green piece of paper and handed it to Yennefer. “I chose ten places I find most suitable,” she explained as the enchantress made herself acquainted with the names on the list. “A friend of mine runs an orphanage in Ellander. We'll pay him a visit this afternoon. Before that, we’ll make a trip to another three. Those portals of yours will make everything easier.”

Yennefer thanked them with a subtle movement of lips.

Her friend considered something in silence. “This may be a problem, Yennefer. All of this. There’s a slim chance for a normal, human baby but an elf…It takes a horrendous amount of time for them to grow. It’s a waste of resources. People may object.”

“I know, Nenneke,” whispered the sorceress. “I know.”

 

* * *

  


The joy Geralt felt when he received a letter from Dandelion informing the man was staying in Vengerberg for the night was impossible to explain. After Yennefer had got out from her cave and declared she would be away, he feared his day would be filled by attending to his responsibilities towards Roach and pointless reading. Hence a vision of a pleasant afternoon spent in the company of another, more friendly thinking being was more than tempting.

 

“Why?” whispered the bard as he glanced at the sizable collection of _pickled_ animals Yennefer kept in her library. “Can you explain it to me. Why would someone need all those things?”

“To learn anatomy,” replied Geralt casually. In his hands he kept a jar with a pigeon showing off its gastrointestinal tract. The pale blue stomach of the bird and its dispassionate eyes nauseated even him. He placed it back on the shelf among other eyesores just as it belonged. “She’s helping as a healer sometimes.”

Dandelion coughed loudly. “Is she working with fowl now? Can’t see one sample that used to belong to a human. This clearly does not,” he snorted, pointing at the amble phallus on the tallest shelf. “Geralt, tell me this one isn’t human.”

Geralt burst out laughing. The bard joined him not long after.

 

“How do you like it?” asked Dandelion with a blush on his tanned face. The barmaid placed jugs of beer on their table. Besides them, the tavern was almost empty. It did not surprise the witcher. In the end, hardly anyone began drinking along with the midday bell. “Isn’t the music, I don’t know… too daunting.”

Geralt was silent. “A ballad like every other,” he mumbled at last and reached for his pint and a slice of dripping with fat cheese. “It’s the topic that bothers me a bit. A witcher and a raven-haired sorceress who seduced him with the use of magic? Thought I heard it before.”

“You’re a country bumpkin, Geralt,” replied the bard, pushing his lute aside. The musical instrument sunk onto the floor releasing a subdued, metallic sound. “I’ll introduce it at the fair. Girls are going to love it.”

“Bet they will. Good you asked for my permission first.”

“I don’t need to.”

Geralt chuckled lightly and pulled the bowl with smoked salmon in herbs closer. “Glad you showed it to me then. I have a feeling Yennefer’s reaction will be even warmer. Warm as the flames or lightning. Tis what she’ll do to you when she hears that yowl. Maybe you should try it today over the supper. You’re staying with us, right?”

“Art has its own rules,” replied the bard in defence. “Does she really not mind me hanging around?”

“Precisely why I didn’t want to attend that silly fair. No, she offered it herself.”

The bard croaked. “Silly fair? Yennefer keeps you on a short leash, I see. She dried you like a raisin. I saw it from the first minute. That’s why you’re so jumpy.”

The witcher did not answer. He had not the slightest intention of feeding his friend’s irrational and already blooming prejudice towards the sorceress. The prejudice that could originate only in a mind of someone who knew nothing about the topic of his pondering. Dandelion, without a shadow of doubt, knew very little. If he had known more, he would have accused him and not Yennefer of spells, tricks and unfair game. His poor manners he didn’t even warrant comment.

He wished the other man a good dinner and got down to his own plate. He was about to start the first of the tiny salmon fillets when the door to the inn burst open.

“Won’t believe what happened to me?” groaned a red-faced gentleman in muddy clothes. The colour of his face as Geralt noticed was not the result of genetics but due to the cold and alcohol consumption. “You won’t believe me,” the man repeated, sitting, or rather falling, on one of the stools before the counter.

The owner of the inn who was apparently acquainted with the gentleman, poured the man a sound pint of lager. “We won’t believe what?” he asked when the other man cooled down a little.

“So that elven wumman that lives bellie us. She comes to me and my wumman and tells in what fash she is. I’m looking at my wifie and my wifie at me. Then we look at the lass's belly. Huge it is as hell, I tell ye. So we say to one another, she must be in labour. No question. She’s moaning and coiling and my wifie tells me to look for help, so I go.”

“To the point, Fergus,” sighed the innkeeper. “I beg you.”

“I bring the help and I go to my wifie,” the red-faced gentleman explained, catching his breath. “I’m about to go to bed when she, the midwife that is, knocks on the doors. Not any knock. Almost as if the hoose was on fire. She tells me to follow her so I go. The pregnant lassie’s even bigger pain. She lies on the flair and cries, and the other one tells me to haud her, cause she wants to cut the babe out and there’s no furniture to tie her to. I tell her that I can’t. That I’m getting sick at the view of bluid alone. And that such procedures, yes I agree but in Vengerberg we do it after they’re both dead. All know that mither cannot be buried with her unborn bairn inside. She’s screaming at me. The lass yells to. So I agree.”

“Can you please spare us the gory details,” the bard interrupted. His chin and lips glistened with the fat in which the fish was marinated. “People eat here, for goodness’ sake.”

The red-faced man went silent. Geralt sighed. Dandelion rose his head from behind the plate and looked at him absentmindedly.

“Nothing. Just wanted to know the details.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Can’t you make the decision?” Yennefer asked Nenneke as they walked along the cloister decorated with abundant twigs of wild ivy and wisteria. First strode the archpriestess, then at much slower pace the sorceress. The sling and nearly six pounds of cargo in it made walking unbelievably inconvenient.

“This institution is not under my jurisdiction,” said the other woman, while Yennefer slowly approached her. “Besides how would that look like? Nepotism in the Temple of Melitele?” She brushed her hair over her forehead and sighed. “And I thought I made it clear. Why didn’t you leave that poor creature in Vengerberg?”

“He’s not cold,” replied the sorceress and once more corrected the red woollen beanie on the boy’s head. A gift  from his late mother, that, along with the suit in the same colour and an old brooch, was the only memoir of her he had left. “ I could not leave him unattended. Sudden infant death syndrome is particularly common in elves.”

“Or did you fear he could find the baby?”

Yennefer did not answer straight away. She pretended to be preoccupied with the checked blanked  in which the boy was wrapped. “I put at least ten different soundproof spells on the house and he stays in my office and not bedroom. We could spend months like this and he would never know,” she blurted after a long pause.

Nenneke replied with a nasty yet honest smile on her pale lips. “I bet he would not,” she began. “Only, I don’t understand you at all, Yennefer. The boy should not be a secret. There’s nothing to hide. Nothing. If there is still something to hide, then that relationship of yours has cracks in its very foundation. What’s a purpose of it if you can’t even be honest with each other?”

“We are honest with each other,” the sorceress gasped.

“About what? Where to travel or in which ballroom to show up next? I bet you don’t talk much start with. Other activities ceased that need. Honest conversations are important. They do not come easily but only they can give comfort and assurance.”

“I'm a grown woman. I don't need comfort.”

The archpriestess brought her hand to the baby's rosy cheek and brushed over it gently. “And you get exactly what you want.”

She pressed the sling tighter to her chest and sped up a little. “Point taken, I shall not settle down with the famous White Wolf,” she mumbled. The other woman, who fell behind almost instantly, couldn’t see the smirk on her face. It was a pity, she thought. Just as the fact she could not see the look on Nenneke’s face either. “And who is responsible for his ethics or rather lack of it? He sees a motherly figure in you, Nenneke. You mess when you eat. I thought you knew. If not, then now you know. Can we please go inside? I want this day to be finally over.”

 

* * *

 

 

The day did not want to finish.

The principal of the Orphanage for Small Children in Ellander turned out to be a man as kind as he was phlegmatic. They started the visit in his office from where they made a little trip around the building and the surrounding gardens. They attended the midday snack and the sorceress had the pleasure to meet in person, half of the children living there. A half from exactly eighty-five children of multiple backgrounds as the principal gently informed her.

Next, the man told Yennifer that a visit in Ellander would not be full without listening to a little performance of the more talented children. The sorceress discovered with a mix of enthusiasm and tiredness that the little elf would have,if he wished, a chance to master in fields like violin, dance, sketching and puppet making. Alternatively, he could try baking classes or one of many team sports.

Then at last they came back to the office to discuss the issue that interested Yennefer most.

“Is that a problem he’s a newborn?” asked Yennefer over a cup of tea the principal generously offered. Nenneke, who sat in the armchair next to hers just finished feeding the little elf with another portion of milk. The spoon she used seemed to work more effectively than metal beakers Yennefer tested, but provided in the same time very sophisticated sound effects.

“No, Lady Yennefer. There is absolutely no restriction regarding the minimum age. Well, the baby has to be born first,” laughed the man, betraying he would make both a terrible speaker and a jester. The baby boy slurped again. “No, it’s not an issue. In fact many of our children arrived soon after they were born. There’s absolutely no need to worry. He’ll be fine.”

The sorceress smiled. “I’m glad to hear that,” she muttered and pushed aside the already empty cup. Before long the baby was back in her arms. “I see you have a great experience with human children,” she started. Her fingers supported the boy’s chin and jaw as she presented her burping skills to the modest audience.

The principal nodded, visibly elated with her approval.

Yennefer nodded too. The boy released a particularly ill-favoured sound which overshadowed completely chucking, snoring, gurgling and every other noise he has been familiarizing her with for the last day. Shortly after, it became obvious that the sound was in fact a prodrome. The boy winked and then in a blink of an eye the hem of Yennefer’s dress was covered in long streams of milk.  “What about elven younglings?” she asked, trying to dry the fabric with its unharmed parts.

“We don’t accept elves.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

For a very long moment she remained silent. Then, she very slowly she reached for the baby’s woollen beany and took it off. The little pointy ears emerged from under the fabric.

“Oh, I see,” the man began reluctantly.

She put the beany back on its place. “Yes, now you see. Is there anything you can do?”

“Lady Yennefer-”

“Cornelius, maybe we could make an exception?” said Nenneke who until then had not joined their discussion. “Yennefer offered to cover costs. More than that. She’s ready to support your endeavours in Ellander. Maybe even convince few other mighty mages to get involved. It’s all about funds, you’ve said it yourself. At least consider it. For the sake of the children.”

The man went silent for a very long while. Yennefer noticed his thoughts weren’t focused on her offer. He tried to figure out how to announce his decision. Something strange must have been in the air because she swore her eyes of sudden became watery. “He won’t agree, Nenneke. No point of asking. People like him don’t break rules.”

“Lady Yennefer-”

“He has his hands tied by a few noblemen that sponsor the institution,” she continued. The timid hands of the baby dug in the skin of her forearm with surprising strength. She leant in and brushed her lips to the fine ebony-black hair covering his tiny head. It took her a while to acknowledge how unprofessional of her it was. “No elves means no elves. Do they still blame it on poor growth rate? They used to when I was still interested in being up to date.”

“Yes, baby elves are not covered under the funds we receive. That is why.”

“There are people looking for ones like you, Cornelius. That will find every single child and everyone who helped it to survive, guided by their hatred and the lust for blood. They’ll arrest you or worse, and this place will surely collapse. No one would risk the life of many children for one only. You definitely shouldn’t.”

“Lady Yennefer-”

“Nenneke,” whispered Yennefer and rose from her seat. The baby in her arms screeched for a moment, but the complaining ceased as quickly as it started. “I understand you, Cornelius. I really do. Until yesterday I thought the same,” she said, cuddling the boy to her chest. “I never cared about villagers  or elves in particular. That day something happened. Something made me to go there.”  

Neither of the two spoke. She paused for a moment and chuckled. The boy’s little hand gripped the fabric of her blouse, right above her left breast. She felt his hot, shallow breaths on her skin.

“They were both dying. She was scared. I saw it in her eyes,” she continued. A note of emotion gave her words an almost metallic aftertaste. “And then she asked. She ordered me to cut her open and save the boy. Maybe it was her motherly instinct or maybe she knew something more, knew how rare her son would be? I’ll never find out. But then when the neighbours yelled at me to take his life, when I was looking at him, I just couldn’t do that.”

“Lady Yennefer-”

The sorceress smiled, very sadly. “You’re not the first who said no today, Cornelius,” she offered and reached her freer hand for the man to shake. He obeyed but very reluctantly.

 

* * *

 

 

That day, Geralt did not come across Yennefer until late afternoon. He found her in their shared bedroom, or rather she found him. He reclined on the bed, struggling with anagrams and ciphertexts from one of the sorceress's numberless books when she entered. As always swift and preoccupied, she made him feel like an integral part of the silk wallpaper.

“I spilled something over myself. Can’t walk about like this,” she explained as she looking for a fresh piece of clothing in the endless chests. “My favourite dress. Bloody hell. And why are you gawking as if you’ve seen a ghost, witcher?”

Geralt watched the show without a word. Her openness was unnecessary and entirely out of place, but he decided not to jump into premature conclusions. Even if she had been giving him nothing but them lately.

“You two are into portals now? Dandelion was dead drunk in the parlour when I came back. Don’t want to nudge you, but shouldn’t you get ready,” she droned, retrieving a black dress which resembled closely the one she was wearing at that moment. After a brief consideration, all her dresses looked similar. The difference in most cases relied on subtle details, like the pattern of embroidery or the lack of it.

“He has time and I’m not going,” he mumbled, not taking his eyes off from a particularly tricky Rail Fence cipher.

The sorceress replied with a nasty smirk on her lips. He moved a little so she could sit down beside him. “Why is that?” she snarled, her eyes fixed him from beneath the long, black eyelashes.

“It’s February,” he said. She sat down and ordered him help her with the dress. As always he did it with great care and clasp by clasp. “Dandelion wants to freeze his bottom off, fine. I’m quite happy not to. It always ends up the same way. We leave either robbed or sore. What’s so funny about it?”

She placed her hand on his thigh and gently squeezed the muscles. “You’ve been nothing but talking about it,” she purred as he was buckling the last hook and eye. “I heard that story at least ten times. This was how you and he met. How it all started. Don’t even think about it, witcher.  I wasn’t listening to your whining in vain. You’re going. Happy or not.”

Geralt delayed his answer. The sorceress rose from the mattress, made a step or two, and then with grace let the dress fall on the floor. The witcher sighed. After the entire day of wearing, the shirt she had underneath clung to few interesting spots.

“There’s nothing to brood over. Pack your things,” she said in an opinionated manner. She picked up the other dress from the floor, then dropped it back and reached for the satin coat that hung from the footboard of the bed. The long, comely garment like most of her belongings was in the black tones, but contained also an bluish floral pattern. She looked like a goddess of winter, he reflected. “And please, stop doing that. It looks like I’m sending you for a shift in a dwarven mine. Or are you now into hot tea and puzzles?”

“Could be that.”

“Or you’re using reverse psychology on me?”

He did not reply. And he did not know how to move to the subject that bothered him most either. Yennefer seemed to aware of that just as well. Slowly, she sat on the bed  and took the exercise book from him. He knew what she demanded.

“Heard you last night,” he shared. Yennefer kept her promise. She grunted and pursed her lips, but did not say a word. “Know you were up. Couldn’t sleep or maybe it was something else. Then you evaporated for entire day. Can tell me anything, you know that?”

He was expecting a thunderstorm and a wave of outrage and criticism, or at least  advice to mind his own business, but nothing like that happened. Nothing at all. Nothing but a tender brush of her lips on his.

“You’re so very like her,” she whispered after a long pause. “You’re two are so very alike. But that’s good. That trait you two share is very important. But I, Geralt… I’m not like you. I don’t talk about those things. I was never shown how to, do you understand?”

Geralt didn’t understand. He did not even know where to start. She was like the ciphers in her books. Intriguing and alluring, complicated. Only unlike her books, there were no tips on how to decrypt her.

She ceased his questions with another pliant kiss, and then another. And then not knowing when or how they found themselves among the wrinkly and odoriferous linen.

Everything was supposed to be as usual but nothing was. The entire world got the odour of chagrin and sadness and he knew why.  That afternoon, he did not discover anything more.

 

* * *

 

 

Five times. Exactly five times Geralt turned around and looked at the house before disappearing from her sight. What he did not know was that from behind a tiny hole in the window blinds, Yennefer’s  eyes yearned for his too.

For a very long moment, she did not move even an inch. She just stood in the window and watched the world around sink in the first snowstorm of the year.

And then the realisation came. The one she was hoping for would not emerged from one of the numberless corners of the main square. He would not tap on her office windows as he always did when he was back from the Path. His boots did not lie around and Roach did not drive the hostler to fury. He simply wasn’t there.

She made a step back, took a seat in her armchair and reached for the green piece of paper lying on the desk. She glanced once more at the only unchecked name on the list and sighed. Very slowly, she crossed the last one too.


End file.
